A Justified End
by Oneirophobic
Summary: Both Monk and Sharona reach a common turning point in their lives. Although it sends them in separate directions, fate brings them together again in a conclusion to the 'Monk' saga. (Chapter Nine is up)
1. Prologue

**Author's Note**

The season finale – along with my personal experiences with obsessive-compulsive disorder – prompted me to consider a possible (or impossible) conclusion for the series. Despite the addition of a new character to this next season and, in turn, the loss of a vital one, I have decided to give Sharona a chance to witness this particular end.

This is only a short prologue. I'd like to get some feedback on the concept before I dive into my story.

In truth, I was going nuts with the recent lack of updates in this category. x)

-----

The sky was darkening.

An old Volvo came to rest tentatively against the curb; the driver could not have been in much of a hurry as it nosed in. Above, a lone seagull – lounging as best as it could in the cold, nearly liftless air that haunted the wake of year's end – may have seen the graying clouds reflected twice in the stormy blue irises of the driver's upturned face had its concerns at that very moment been land-bound. As it was, finally disheartened by ominous promises of moisture, the scruffy bird flapped hard. It leveled out, turned sharply, and disappeared. The woman was no longer watching; an arrangement of fair curls had displaced the pale face. The Volvo's door whispered shut.

The rain made Sharona Fleming nervous.

"You're ridiculous," her voice was weak and her throat was dry. It had little to do with the weather. The nurse's lips remained motionless as her mind ran cautious circles, skirting the particularly sensitive memory that had produced the phrase.

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry, and he deserves to know._

As she ventured to take a step forward and onto the sidewalk, Sharona found her way barred by the whirling, unconcerned drift of a snowy feather.

She paused. A stray wisp of gold stroked the forlorn woman's cheek and her blue gaze followed the feather, enthralled; the look of envy would not be mistaken for anything but what it was. After a long moment, she pulled herself away from the daydream with a motion akin to shaking out one's hair following a shower. Sharona could only imagine how _silly_ she looked, half-astride the gutter, golden mane tousled, and watching (with fascination, she might add) a seagull feather. She brushed back her hair, and she knew that it was inevitable that some of the droplets would cling.

A part of her hoped that Adrian was, in turn, observing her silently from his window, understanding her pained expression; the chunk which she exposed to the world, however – the hard majority of Sharona Fleming – was partial to the image of her former employer toiling with a mop – oblivious – in his kitchen, or perhaps his bathroom. She discovered herself appallingly warmed by the knowledge that the tiles would never be too clean for Adrian Monk. As the downy thing, the talisman of her regret, came to rest, she gave it her back and willed herself to confront the house.

_. . . Step back three months . . ._


	2. One: Strapping on Armor

**Author's Note**

I'm afraid that four reviews immediately following the publication of my stumpy little prologue is more than enough cause for me to continue. Heh. Not that I wouldn't have forced it upon you all anyway. ;)

I've given more thought to this story than I have my other two, so readers can expect it to be a bit longer, containing significantly more plot. I also don't have a whole lot of research to conduct in order for this to work.

Also – I've created a C2 community dedicated to 'Monk' fiction – the Consortium of Defective Detectives – and cheerfully welcome any story submissions.

-----

**Chapter One** - _"Strapping on Armor"_

_Oh . . . _God.

Hell had risen up beneath him. Or . . .

Perhaps he had died in his sleep. Hundreds of possibilities – images of swallowing his own tongue, inhaling an odorless poison – poked through the soil of the detective's abnormally fertile mind. His slim frame was wracked with a shudder, shoulders to toes.

The fiery little demons, heavily armored with large, jutting appendages at their foreheads and razor beaks, paraded with a haphazard yet terribly mechanical purpose. He felt the moisture depart his mouth as they angled their procession in his direction. In the next instant, he did the only thing any man might be expected to do in such a predicament: he steeled himself with little more than a twitch before leaping for safety.

Adrian Monk landed hard on the countertop. He cringed at the realization of what he had just done (though whether he was more immediately concerned with the wellbeing of the counter or the seat of his pants was unclear), stared back at the thin ribbon of black ants, then ground his teeth and remained seated. He straightened his spine. The soft pads of his fingers kneaded the palm of the opposite hand for a few extended moments before abandoning it for the smooth, plastic surface of the telephone. His dark eyes slid to the breach in the opposite wall extending into the dining room: the phonebook was in his desk.

Monk set the receiver down for a moment as he dug the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. Retrieving the device and turning it over in his hand so that he might see the keypad, his fingers wavered only fleetingly before punching out the tones of a familiar number.

It rang. Once. Twice. Three times . . . _Click._

"Hello?" Full of skepticism. He took care to keep his eyes averted from the floor as he spoke.

"Uh-uhm . . . Sharona? I-It's me. Monk." When all the answer he received was a rustling – a forceful breath against the mouthpiece of his assistant's phone – he dove in hesitantly. "I-Uh-I. . . know that, you know. . . You needed the time off, but would you l-look i-"

"_Adrian_. Let me explain this to you again: I can't leave; Benjy has the chickenpox; Gail's never had them, and I've had _zero_ luck in finding anyone else in the middle of the week; I haven't been shopping since your last toilet paper crisis and we're scrounging for food. On top of all that, you've neglected to pay me. Again." Monk rolled his shoulder agitatedly. He adjusted the receiver against his ear.

"It's really important. Do you know where I can find a good exterminator? They're absolutely every-_Argghh! _Oh . . ._ God!" _He fumbled with the phone, as his gaze had drifted, feeling the device tumble easily from his fingers and he winced at the clatter it produced against the floor amongst the growing ranks of the hell pests. He looked after it, his face strained. He tugged feebly at his shirt collar. Retrieval was out of the question.

After removing, neatly folding, and setting his jacket aside, Adrian Monk wrapped his arms about himself, hugging his sides and awaiting some form of salvation.

-----

Little doubt lingered in Sharona's mind while she replaced the receiver as to what the scream and subsequent crash across the line had meant. To say that Adrian had an exasperating knack for blowing the most trivial thing out of proportion would be an understatement.

From what little she had absorbed during the conversation around the impediment of her rage, she had an idea that his crisis amounted to little more than a mouse or a rag-winged moth. How such creatures could be expected to function long in Monk's pristine environment was well beyond her . . .

_Nonetheless . . ._

As insignificant as her friend's present affliction might be, it would probably hang him up for hours, and the man was more prone to emotional scars than most. Throwing her hip against the counter and resting her elbow on its cool surface, Sharona rubbed her knuckles along her temple, blue eyes partially concealed, deliberating. She shot a glance toward her son's room. A moment hadn't the opportunity to pass before she caught her attention easing back to the phone. As slim as the chance seemed, the possibility of any real harm coming to Adrian did not pass unnoticed through that primal gateway of maternal instinct. This no longer surprised her. It was not often that the nurse, even subconsciously, tried to make sense of her relationship with her boss, but more and more frequently now, when it did come up, she could only see herself as the guardian to his interpretation of particularly difficult child. Even on the occasions when he didn't drive her absolutely nuts.

Sharona groaned before effecting a brisk trot to her bedroom door and turning to open her closet. She tore a blue sweater from its hanger (which jumped quivering from its perch and clunked to the floor; she didn't seem to take any notice) and reached to pull a thick and faded blanket for Benjy.

_. . . And on to the theatre of war._


	3. Two: Drawn Battle

**Author's Note**

Wow. Reviews. Good ones. I'll admit that I always have to work up a little courage to open that mailbox every day. Thanks, everyone.

I started this chapter days ago, but, unfortunately, have had little occasion to work on it. I had originally planned to combine this chapter and the next one, but decided instead that this would be a good place to leave off for now.

I'm sorry about the Emmy, Tony. Knock them dead with the next batch of episodes and come back next year. I'll be watching.

----

**Chapter Two** – _"Drawn Battle"_

_Present _

She'd made it.

Sharona could feel the cold spring from the doorknob as her fingers neared it. That was new; she hadn't recalled the chill during her last visit. Perhaps the weather had been different. _Odd. _She couldn't, for the life of her, remember. A whisper of forgiveness for the inattentiveness fled from between the woman's lips in a smoky curl. She had been distracted.

_Three months earlier . . ._

She gripped the knob, fumbled for the key, and flung the door wide as the keychain clinked back into her shouldered purse. She ventured a few steps into the hallway, her gaze immediately seeking some sign of disturbance, which was, admittedly, illogical here.

"Adrian?" she called. The irritation rose in her voice as the last syllable passed her lips.

"S-Sharona? Oh, thank G-Did-did you shut the door?" The weakened tones of his normally soft voice only just carried from the kitchen. She glared. Her insurmountable patience had been cut very thin that week. And then, uncertain: "Sharona?" A thick _crash_ answered him as the heavy door slammed back against its frame. Sharona lowered her foot. _He'll notice a shoeprint._ Just then, she could care less.

"What was--?" he began, anxiously.

"I'm on my way," She entered the kitchen stiffly. Fortunately for her employer, the bizaree sight within was enough to prevent Sharona from chewing him out. _For now._

Her boss sat cross-legged at the edge of his countertop, black-stocking toes turned up against his knees and his shapely hands steepled palm-to-palm and resting over his left ankle. His jacket and shoes had fallen into a flawless line beside him. A timid, strained smile played at the edges of his lips as he turned to her.

"Sharona," The relief clinging to his voice flung her back to the distant image of a child. It was Monk who broke that strange tableau as he quietly directed his index finger before him, at the floor.

At first, she saw nothing. Sharona inched forward, wordlessly inspecting the glaring mahogany planks beneath her feet until she discovered the _thing_ that had driven her neurotic boss to climb the furnishings.

"Adrian," she spoke evenly, "There's _five_ ants here. _This_ is what you dragged me out here for?" Her eyes flashed dangerously.

"Uh, well," his pinky absently moved to scratch the ridge of his brow, "Six. There are six." His voice was thin, as though stretched too far. This appeared to be all he had to say. With an exasperated growl, Sharona set her purse beside him and reached for a dustpan. Less than a minute later, she watched the little black bodies swirl in the sink basin, one crumpled form catching in a corner before disappearing down the drain. All of the frustration seething just below the surface of Sharona's professional exterior had to out. So she shook her head. She tried to focus on the warm water running over the pan's rectangular scoop and onto her knuckles.

"This is _ridiculous_, Monk," she shook her hands off in the sink and reached for a towel to dry the dustpan, "I can't allow my life – not to mention Benjy's – deteriorate to this state of . . ." She turned to watch him rise from a crouch, his footwear secured, and she watched as he worked his jacket buttons into place. And then she found his eyes, and Sharona suddenly wasn't so sure about the accuracy of her metaphorical child. She certainly wasn't sure of her anger. He did his best, after all.

She realized that she had been staring when familiar anxiety tinged the warm, brown irises.

"Uhm, Sharona? Are you . . . okay?" He crossed the kitchen with the murmur of pressed cotton and carefully plucked the towel from her fingers in order to finish the job himself. Now that the crisis was over, he was, no doubt, anxious to be rid of her so that he could finish cleaning up. He'd probably want to bleach the floors.

"Fine. Uh—Adrian? We'll talk later. Just . . . don't call me again, alright?" she turned away from him to grab at her purse, "I need to take care of Benjy now." _Not you._ Her phone rang.

-----

"Mom?" Sharona went still.

"What's wrong, Benjy?" At the note of alarm in his friend's voice, Monk stood and turned from the center island where he had replaced the brush and plastic pan in its designated space. He wrung his hands, but remained still otherwise.

"There's someone here," Benjy's voice was still heavy with sleep, but the edge of unease stood out in plain relief to his mother, "He's—" The low tones of a whispered voice, a strange voice, reported faintly over the line. It was a moment before Benjy came back on, "Mom? Come home. Please."


	4. Three: Messenger

**Author's Note**

This is a record-time update for me. Whee. A bit short, though. ):

Although there is a little rough language here, the next chapter is the point where I may decide to change the rating to PG-13. It's not a nice one.

----

**Chapter Three** – _"Messenger"_

"_You_'re not going anywhere." As terrified as she was, Sharona knew better than to believe that she would find comfort in Monk's presence; he always managed to escalate the situation. That was not something she could afford this time.

"It's Benjy," he retorted incredulously, "He's . . ." Monk snatched Sharona's restless gaze from the front door with the sincerity in his own, "Family." As much as she would have liked to argue, they had distressingly little time. And, honestly? She wouldn't have known how to reply.

They raced for the old station wagon, only briefly delayed while Monk made a fleeting inspection of the door before the two passed through and emerged into the night.

-----

"You need to tell me everything, Sharona."

"Adrian," she snapped, "I don't _know_ everything. In fact, I know shit. I know that my son is at home, sick, and all alone."

"I thought that he said there wa—"

"Okay. He's _not_ alone," she whipped around a stop sign and gauged her boss's reaction, daring him to protest her recklessness, "But _somehow _the idea of some psycho holding Benjy hostage is not very comforting." Monk could only cringe, grasping the spot where his brows furrowed together and squeezing his eyes shut.

-----

They arrived an eternity later. Sharona was first out of the car, almost completely disengaged from the vehicle by the time she had fully turned the key in the ignition. In direct contrast to sluggish standard of time experienced on the trip, Sharona's dash inside seemed to be enacted, as Monk watched, in a super fast-motion that left the detective in a momentary state of stunned paralysis. Shaking it off, he hastily made to follow his nurse. As hastily, that is, as a man who refused to touch the seatbelt, the buckle, or the car door with his bare hands could.

Inside, he found Sharona fussing over a decidedly flustered Benjy. He offered the room a cursory inspection before pulling the door shut behind him with a sleeve-sheathed hand; no strange men in sight. Monk was briefly reminded of his assistant's brush with insanity the previous year.

He inched forward, consciously maintaining a respectable distance between himself and the distraught mother who was, at the moment, thoroughly occupied with the comfort of her child.

"What happened, Benjy? Where is he? What did he want?" She pulled her son into her lap.

"And how the hell did he get in?" Monk interjected, having opened the door again in order to inspect the lock with the meticulousness that was his alone, ubiquitous silver pen balanced between his fingers.

Benjy's eyes were drawn to Monk's back and remained there until the detective turned to face him. "Benjy?" The boy cleared his throat.

"Uh-He asked for you, Mr. Monk. And he asked _about_ you. A-and then he left," His eyes grew wider, but just perceptively, "He had a gun."

Adrian Monk could only stare at mother and child. In the moment that passed, he thought only of Trudy. In the next, _I am so sorry, Sharona . . ._


	5. Four: Parting of Ways

**Author's Note**

I'm demented enough a person to have had a terrible amount of fun writing this chapter. x) Well ... I've already illustrated that with my posting of three updates in one day.

So far, monkaholic has promptly reviewed every one of these sections without fail. I want to thank everyone for their reviews, but you most of all. Thank you, friends, and enjoy.

----

**Chapter Four** – _"Parting of Ways"_

Silence felt to ensue for more minutes than even Adrian Monk would have cared to count. He cleared his throat, eyes a bit unfocused and heart ripping through his chest.

"Ben—" His voiced cracked. He tried again. "Benjy. This is _very_ important. D-did you happen to-to n-n-n-otice," Monk rubbed his fists against his eyelids, pausing a moment to collect himself somewhat, "His hands?" The boy looked puzzled.

"What about them?"

"H-he didn't have . . . eleven—you know—fingers? Did he?" Benjy shot a familiar "you're-absolutely-out-of-your-mind" look in Monk's direction before lifting his chin to question his mother. When she made no move to explain, Benjy answered uncertainly.

"No—He had normal hands. Uhm . . . He was short, and skinny . . . and . . ."

Sharona ran her fingers through her son's hair and over his scalp. Otherwise, her attention belonged strictly to the nervous wreck of a man standing in her living room. And then:

"Benjy, honey? Why don't you get back to bed? I'll be there in a minute, and we'll talk." She lowered her eyes long enough to push back his bangs and place a kiss on his forehead. Benjy nodded, unfolded himself from Sharona's embrace, and started toward his room. He turned to favor them with a skeptical glance before disappearing around the corner.

She cocked her head, listening for the soft _click_ of her son's door. When it came, Monk was hit with all the force of a gunshot.

"This is it. I'll say it quickly: _I can't do this anymore_. Just when I thought that our situation couldn't get worse, my kid is dragged into it. What if this had been a real psycho, Adrian? One out for any sort of revenge he could get? What if Benjy had been kidnapped? Or . . . I just . . ." She propped the points of her elbows up on her knees, burying her face in the upraised palms. An instant later they fell back against her thighs, damp. "I realized that this job would have its _moments_, but," She angled her chin back to her employer and the overhead lighting glinted off the moisture gathering in the corners of the nurse's eyes, "There's a good chance that this guy will be back. I don't want Benjy around here when that happens."

Deep in the rational core of Adrian Monk, there was no doubt as to what she was implying. The part of him that acted was not rational.

"Well—What are you saying? Do you think your mother would—you know—take him for a while? Until it's safe?" His expert fingers vanished beneath his jacket for a moment as he replaced the pen. Sharona's features grew hard.

"No, Adrian. I'm saying that I won't work for you anymore." Monk shook his head slowly, incredulously.

"Wh-wh-what do you mean? Don't you think I feel terrible about all this? But . . . you can't just _quit." _He threw his hands into the air, "Even if you could—which, by the way, you _can't_—you'd just come back, right?" Warm, dark eyes pleaded with cold, light ones.

"We could still keep in touch, and it's not just about this," her hand flipped in an unreadable gesture, perhaps trying to make palpable the entire situation, "I've been living my life like this for more years than anyone should ever have to."

-----

_Maybe not the best way to phrase that._ Sharona cringed inwardly at the hurt flickering over her friend's face. Monk managed to take a few steps forward before apparently discovering himself rooted to the spot by his heels, as he moved no further. Instead, shoulders slumped and tears brimming, he loosed his despair.

"What about me, Sharona? What do you expect me to do without you? I-I can't . . . function." He jabbed a finger at her, "You know that, and you're leaving me . . . what the hell kind of friend would _do_ that?" Her guilt suddenly took a backseat to nearly a decade of pent-up exasperation.

"After all I've suffered through with you? _Oh_, a pretty fucking terrible one," she spat. Sharona leapt to her feet and crossed the room until she was nearly face-to-face with Monk, staring him down with all the fire she could muster. She repeated the last phrase again slowly, emphasizing each word with a sharp prod to his sternum. He bit down hard on his tongue to keep from crying out at the contact, leaning away marginally and setting himself slightly off balance.

"No, you can't . . . you'll be back . . . Sharona? You'll . . . be . . ."

"Goodbye, Adrian."


	6. Five: Broken Lines

**Author's Note**

We get to go back to the present in the next chapter, which will be a nice break before the other half of the flashbacks start. ;)

I also deliberated about doing without this chapter entirely, but I thought that giving some closure on _"Parting of Ways"_ was important. This might, actually, prove to be more depressing than its predecessor. Wow. I think I'll go write the reunion scene for a nice change of pace.

----

**Chapter Five**– _"Broken Lines"_

At the time, Sharona had been rather impressed by how well her callous front had held while she'd watched Adrian Monk slink out of her life. She'd thought that the eyes would turn her, flood her with a feeling of guilt beyond description. But he'd never shown them to her again in the wake of her rough outburst. She'd never know.

He'd left. She'd accepted her decision. Benjy . . . He'd accepted it with good grace. He did not, however, understand it. Sharona knew that a reason to justify her quitting that Benjy would appreciate was crashing about her skull; the trick would be to catch it amidst the mental tangle that had sprouted in the last few days.

Sharona's new life, up to this point, had consisted of drawing up a plan to move. A new home would help to set their lives back on track, and the most likely candidate seemed to be Jersey; or New York, maybe.

It wasn't long before she located a job in Manhattan. The conditions were good, and the salary was decent . . . Not as decent, say, as Monk's, but at least she'd be able to count on a regular paycheck and not have to worry about pestering her boss in order to keep herself and her kid from starving. Benjy seemed neutral to the idea; he went about packing without complaint, but his outlook was considerably lacking in its usual energy.

In the months that followed, the pair of mother and son managed. Second thoughts, as it turned out, were in need of some prompting.

-----

Real hell was nothing but a circle. This had been the first thought to pierce Monk's numbed mind as he'd dashed across the street (flinging nervous glances at the idling traffic to his right and careful to trod every rung of the crosswalk despite his haste), and come toe-to-toe with a perfect, off-white ring rendered in chalk against the sloped edge of the sidewalk on the opposite side. He wasn't sure how long he had stopped there. He would swear that he only navigated its circumference for a moment, one foot in front of the other, ignoring the clutter of script (some sort of advertisement) scrawled in the center.

_Hell. Circle_. Just then, with Sharona's final farewell resounding off every crannied surface of his brain, he would not have been able to express the connection in mere _words._

Monk had believed that in running from Sharona, slipping out the door with nary a word, a safe distance might be kept; everything might come back together in the morning. It was the last thought with a semblance of rationality he could form that night. So, naturally, the realization was a bit delayed.

_She's not coming back._

He stood in the center of his bedroom hours later, light of an indeterminable time of day filtering through the blinds and onto the sheets, and a clean black nightshirt hanging from his fingertips. If this understanding had surprised Monk, the word that followed, biting on its heels shocked him: _Coward. _

He stood on a circle of Cowardice. Regardless of how far the afflicted creature walked the path, he would never look up to discover that its name had changed.

Monk shivered, his bare shoulders suddenly chilled. Rolling his dark eyes to the ceiling, he thought, _Who knew hell would be so cold?_


	7. Six: Threshold

**Author's Note**

I apologize for the brevity of this chapter. I didn't want to ruin the suspense. :)

----

**Chapter Six**– _"Threshold"_

_Present_

The pads of her fingers were still numb from the chill air outside as they brushed the knob and she balanced on a paper-thin edge of indecision at the entrance to his apartment. How would Monk react at seeing the woman who had, not ninety days earlier, tossed him out like a broken toaster? _It's too late, now._

That traitorous, egotistic part of her, a side that prided itself in its intimate knowledge of the man's inner workings, harbored considerable faith in the vision of her friend rejoicing, throwing wide the door, and welcoming her back into his life.

_Is 'back' where I want to be?_ Honestly, she didn't think so. Sharona had already convinced herself that no ulterior purpose existed in her quest to make amends with the unorthodox creature holed up in the strange, silent abode.

Her hand dropped back to her side, mingling with the voluminous folds of her jacket and curling into a fist as it reemerged. Three hard knocks pushed her across the point of no return.

Sharona's ears strained, desperately casting about for a sound. The sting of hard wood and cold air rising in her knuckles felt far away, and almost seemed to hum in the hushed atmosphere.

._Snap_.

She jumped a good two feet, the muscles in her jaw contracting like steel cords. The belated realization that she was suddenly wound as tight as Monk ever had been didn't serve to relax her any. It really was a vicious cycle: nerves compounding nerves. The nurse abruptly developed another thin layer of respect for the man inside.

It was only the lock turning. _Only the lock turning . . ._

She regained her composure, noticing the smudge of a shadow appear against the foot of the door as a light flickered on inside.

-----

When Sharona had contacted Leland Stottlemeyer to confirm her plans to return to San Francisco, he had begun to act rather strangely upon her mention of Monk.

"How's—you know—Adrian?"

"Ah . . . Monk? Oh, he's fine."

"He hasn't done anything crazy? Never mind. Bad phrasing. Seriously, though; he's doing okay?"

"He's . . . uh, never been better."

-----

_Ha. Remind me to thank you later for the warning, Captain. _She filed away a mental reminder to corner the detective when, and if, she saw him again.

The face that materialized, framed on one side by the vertical edge of the door's silhouette, was only immediately recognizable by the troubled, brown eyes set in its center.

For the first time since she'd arrived, Sharona took a good look at her surroundings, hoping, perhaps, to see in them the vital _something _she must have missed.


	8. Seven: Archangel

**Author's Note**

Enjoy.

----

**Chapter Seven**– _"Archangel"_

"_Volf?_ Since when do you use the—" His voice cut out, the figure on his doorstep climbing into focus as his pupils widened to accommodate the darkness outside. The miserable, golden-haired woman was clearly not the someone he had expected to meet when he'd cracked open the door. He felt his heart hesitate, and suddenly he could do nothing but gape.

-----

The man's expression was the very last thing that Sharona's attention was concerned with just then. Her poor, shocked mind registered many more important details as her eyes raced over his features. The dark, wavy hair was cropped exceedingly short, and, though a few tiny strands poked out over his smooth forehead, the remainder was perfectly, meticulously groomed. Matching trim, dark parentheses enclosed his chin and the expressively thin line of his mouth. The obstruction of the half-open door put any further investigation on hold.

The initial daze that had descended over both parties began to loosen its grip.

Their eyes met, and their gazes locked.

"Adrian?" What the hell was she thinking? Who else could it be? But then, itching at the back of her throat,_ Change? Ha. Any context of the word where sheets and clothes don't apply would have Adrian Monk in a fit._ As Monk blinked away his astonishment and made to acknowledge her, Sharona reasoned that giving her attention over to his reaction would be wise.

"Sh-Sharona?" His ex-nurse immediately recognized the look of panic that crept down his forehead, over his eyes, and sat quivering on the edge of his lips. She expected him to simply stop up, cease to function.

Instead, Monk's hands flexed against the wood and he leaned into the doorframe for support. When he seemed to have judged that his legs would hold him, he sacrificed the assistance lent by the door itself as his fingers flew to cover his mouth. His gaze rolled back up to her, and his palm slid down his partially whiskered chin so that he might speak clearly.

"W-Would you, uh—come in? Please?" Although the stutter was perfectly characteristic of her former employer, she couldn't help but notice that it lacked in the frail timbre she had always associated with Monk. But hadn't it been there when he'd first greeted her? Maybe. Just then, she would swear that he'd have been more comfortable inviting in a stray off the street.

Stepping past the bewildered Monk as he held the door, Sharona couldn't quite shake off the idea.

She shrugged out of her coat, waiting for the scrape of the door as it closed behind them before stealing another look in that direction. His uncharacteristic choice in wardrobe knocked her into an even deeper state of confusion. Had Monk been in her place, she had little doubt that he'd have thrown together a conceivable explanation for the changes the instant she'd opened the door. She wouldn't even know how to begin. The hair? No idea. The black t-shirt and _carpenter_ jeans? What the hell sort of truck had hit her neurotic friend? _The pharmaceutical kind, maybe._ Oh, God. If he was on something again... She'd have to ask. Eventually. He was fidgeting, one hand massaging the palm of the other when she attempted to catch his eye. The familiar gesture heartened her.

"Adrian?" she spoke softly, slowly, "Before anything else is said, I'd like to get two things out of the way." His eyebrows lifted slightly. "First: I know seeing me is probably the last thing you wanted, but I came because I needed to ask for your forgiveness, face to face. I had no business kicking you out like I did, leaving you to fend for yourself without a real 'goodbye' . . . or even a real _reason._ Though I'd' have hated to admit it a couple months ago, you were right. It took me this long to realize that. Three months. Do you know how long that is?" She curled a pinky beneath her eye, flinging away a tear, "Heh. Who am I kidding? You can count." Blue eyes drifted to look him over. _It certainly is a long time . . . _

Then: "Benjy misses you." _Terrific. That was low, Sharona._ Low? Maybe. True? Without a doubt.

I_ miss you, too._

-----

Monk had scarcely moved throughout her speech; his full attention had remained detained by her voice, and her face, and her tears. His lips parted, but a moment was to pass before the words came to him.

-----

"Sharona," his face contorted for a moment – brows drew together, mouth twitched, hands became still, "You said... _two_ things?" Wow. A shot of Monk Classic was long overdue. She couldn't help but smile as she tilted her chin at him.

"Yeah. What's with the goatee?" He reddened vaguely as he drew a hand through the short crop of curls on his scalp and the other fingered the item in question.

"It's really a very long, long... " He noticed her jacket at this point, plucking it from under her arm and shuffling toward the closet, "_Long _story." Sharona quirked a brow.

"I have time." Turning back to her, he lifted his wrist to give it a good look, apparently expecting to see a watch. When he had satisfied himself that no such article existed, his hand dropped before him to receive a good rub around the wrist from its brother. A moment of this proved that Monk had not, until then, registered his state of dress in Sharona's presence.

"And the clothes. You'll want to know... about—yeah. Uh—Wait. It has to be at least _eight o'clock_. How can you have '_time' _for anything?"

"I'll stay as long as it takes."

"But... That might ..."

"Providing it doesn't involve 'The Monk'," she cut in. This seemed to strike a nerve.

"_Please._ When I said you'd never see him again, I meant it."

"You didn't think you'd see _me_ again. Did you?" His eyes became blank for an instant – detached from the room, and detached from her. When he was finally able to haul himself out of it, whatever 'it' was, he favored his guest with a scowl.

"No," he turned and began to walk down the hall, "I didn't." Trailing him at a cautious distance, Sharona privately wondered at his pointed evasion of her original request for forgiveness.

"But... I _did_ hope," he shot a look over his shoulder, "There was always hope."

_So there is._

-----

Monk was rather surprised at how well he kept himself together. His ordeal had obviously marked him deeper than he would ever have imagined possible. _Long claws leave deep wounds. _However much the image made him cringe, the logic was satisfying. In any event, Sharona was here. _Sharona._

"So... would now be the time to ask what you've been up to?" She had been fiddling with the coffeepot and now pulled out a chair beside him. He shrugged halfheartedly.

"_Trudging_ through hell," he placed his palms against the cool tabletop, savoring the sensation as though the very word might evoke a new inferno, "To... do battle with the devil himself."


	9. Eight: A Friend in Wolf's Clothing

**Author's Note**

Doesn't anyone write anymore? I've been going insane with the lack of new 'Monk' fiction. That, coupled with the third-season reruns.

Look who's talking. Has it really been eight days?

Anyway – enjoy.

I'll go find solace in the first twelve episodes.

ALSO – I've been receiving quick responses to my updates, so I assume that many of my readers are online in the evenings. I'd love to chat with other Monk fans. If anyone's interested, feel free to drop an instant message (AOL) to Shaky Sleuth. I can also do MSN Messenger.

----

**Chapter Eight**– _"A Friend in Wolf's Clothing"_

_Several months ago..._

The prospect of leaving the house to walk to the supermarket when he needed food, or toilet paper, or water, or – God forbid – pre-moistened wipes... alone every time, for the rest of his life, was enough to keep Monk indoors for as long as humanly possible. That is, until the barest of necessities was exhausted.

"Holy hell," Monk flung the shriveled plastic tube against the sink basin, watching as it hit the edge, spun once, and slid to a rest atop the open drain. His jaw clenched. It wouldn't be long before the crumpled thing — lying there, label facedown – would begin to feast on his nerves. _Oh, God..._ He felt a distinct itch rise up the length of his fingers, and he shot a glance at the wastebasket. Hell, it was unsightly enough to go to an incinerator. He rolled his shoulders beneath the pristine white t-shirt just as the goddamned, pretentious reflection shining out at him from the mirror snagged his attention. Monk's eyes grazed the image, suddenly overwhelmed with disgust. Turning his hands so that his thumbs were on the outside of the sink, he clamped down hard on either side of its lip.

The dark, miserable eyes stared back at him.

He scowled. The image returned the favor.

"Do I _really_ have a choice?" The reflection was regarded critically, as though he expected it to supply him with an answer. With a sharp shake of the head, his gaze drifted to the sink once more, "No—not _really_. I'm going." With his attention diverted by the uncomfortable prospect, Monk's resolve snapped. He reached to catch the edge of the toothpaste tube between his index and middle fingers, murmuring, "Just—alone. Very... alone." The empty container clunked against the bottom of the equally empty wastebasket. He swiftly went about washing his hands.

_I'll go, but... after a shower, _he decided. The towel was replaced on the rack once he'd dried his hands and carefully matched the corners to refold it. This done, he freed the ends of the shirt from his waistband and his fingers paused, stroking the edge, where the soft fabric was folded beneath with careful stitches.

_Did I really sit up all night? Still dressed... I must have._ Monk felt disoriented. As much as he willed its destruction, every broken point in the circle was a slug to the head.

The knowledge that he was still partially clad in the clothing of the previous day sent a feverish prickle over the surface of his body. He peeled the shirt away from his skin, tugged it over his head before placing it in the hamper, and went to the linen closet for a fresh towel.

-----

A stirring of comfort within Adrian Monk was, ironically, not uncommon. For example, the bite of fervent drops slapping into the nape of his neck and rolling down off his shoulders in searing rivulets proved to be one of the few touches he never thought to greet with revulsion. Cleanliness, after all, was the man's preferred state. His lids began to droop ever so slightly as a puff of steam lulled the detective into some free corner of his mind.

As his fingers probed the tray for the new bar of soap he had placed there, Monk was blissfully unaware that an uninvited guest was making use of his living room couch.

-----

An odd sort of deliberation found Monk standing at the exact center of his room, just below the foot of the bed, a navy robe draped over his shoulders and secured firmly around his waist. As inevitable as his indecisiveness was, it was on a rare occasion that it affected him when choosing his daily attire. Dressing – one of several things that Adrian Monk normally did very well. After an indeterminable number of moments had passed, he strode hesitantly toward his closet and, tugging an unparticular gray shirt off its hanger, set it beside the t-shirt, folded with a pair each of briefs and socks, on the comforter. _I will survive this..._

He had survived Trudy's murder – most of him had, anyway – so how would it look if he didn't make it through _this_? What would it mean? No one had died. No great tragedy had occurred. His nurse had decided to quit. _That's it. _But no, it wasn't.

"Who are you kidding? Swallow your pride for once, Monk. This whole damn... mess," he pulled at the collar of the robe before striking his fist against the bit of exposed chest, "Drove your _best friend_ away."So that was it, plain and simple. The discussion seemed to be closed as he went about dressing in physical and emotional silence. The hush trailed him through the door, down the hall, and chose to desert him once he hit the living room.

-----

Monk froze mid-stride, his steady breath tapering off. If he'd a conscious audience, the sight might have been comical. His eyes were trained hard on the obvious distraction at the far side of the room: there was a man in his house, lying on his couch. _Sprawled_ on his couch, actually. The intruder himself was rather nondescript – short and wiry with a head of buzzed gray hairs – but his wardrobe... now _that_ was interesting. The folds of a monstrous oversized trench pooled about him, over the back of the couch where one arm disappeared and onto the floor below the resting place of the opposite elbow, which was exposed beneath turned-back sleeves. Beneath? He was perfectly accoutered in a mint-shaded tuxedo – a color that glided down his short length to a pair of flashy leather shoes. His eyelids were shut, and his lips parted slightly.

"Well, good morning," he called. The detective's ravenous, unparalleled perception was at work immediately. There was definitely an accent: heavy once but lightened by a childhood of mixed residences. Originally Austrian, maybe.

"Uhm..." Why was it that when he _really_ needed them, the correct words were always just beyond his reach? He flailed about for a distraction. Monk's hands managed to beat down the paralysis, moving to work into place the buttons of the silver jacket he had thrown on over his sweater. "Uh... I-I-Hadn't," one button, "Really," two buttons, "Uh... Noticed." Three. But this wouldn't do. "You'll h-have to excuse... Actually, I have. I wouldn't—I wouldn't have chosen that particular word t-to describe it. It's a little... ominous. You know? With the dark... and—uh—the clouds... and strange—_strange_—men in my living room?" A single, hazel eye slid open to peer from across the room.

"Adrian Monk. Please – excuse _me._ Fair warning, I realize, would have been polite," he sat up, gathering the voluminous coat about him with some difficulty, "But courtesy will always be outweighed by caution." Monk favored the displaced cushions in dismay before pushing his voice around the lump in his throat.

"You wished me 'good morning." The man blinked, the tip of his thumb flicking at the edge of his earlobe.

"So I did. It didn't seem dangerous at the time, but..." he paused as Monk's attention was again diverted by the disheveled piece of furniture upon which he was perched, "I see now that I may have been mistaken. Now... I'm—" Monk's focus shifted.

"I know who you are. Why don't you tell me what you're doing on my couch?" The intruder's face was remarkably unexpressive, Monk noticed.

"You know...?"

"You're the guy that scared my assistant's kid half to death. Now – leave? Please?" The tortured ex-cop was beginning to find that rage was infinitely more piquant an emotion than fear – a revelation that itself frightened him. The man pointedly ignored the request.

"My name is Hugo Wolf." It, of course, rang as _"Volf."_

"The composer?"

"I'm—"

"Not a composer. I know. You're into an even more lucrative profession, I'll wager," the dark eyes came to rest upon the diamond cufflinks at his companion's wrists, "And Hugo Wolf has been dead for at least a hundred years." Wolf (the legitimacy of his name still questionable) rose and tossed off his coat.

"You are a genuinely cursed man, Mr. Monk; brilliant and, thus, cursed. I judge that you are long overdue for some good news. " The events of the previous forty-eight hours gave Monk's heart a painful kick. He winced, and could do nothing but take the bait.

"Wha—What news?" Monk began to fidget.

"Your wife passed away how long ago?"

"Nearly... ten—ten years."

"Ten years of searching for the butcher. If you'll give me a few moments to explain, I can assure you that there will never be an eleventh."


	10. Nine: Channeling Fear, Part One

**Author's Note**

More than two months since my last update. Ouch.

I've been dabbling in some horror fandoms to get my creative juices flowing again. Know that I do intend to finish this story. Eventually.

I was stunned by the amount of feedback the last chapter generated. What can I say, but… thanks?

Uh… Please note that I originally intended for this chapter to be much longer, but I haven't been able to get myself into a mood appropriate to write for _Monk_ lately, so I've only posted the little I've been able to get done since the last update. I apologize.

-----

**Chapter Nine** – _"Channeling Fear: Part One"_

_Present_

_Oh my God. _Sharona felt as though she were toeing the edge of a cliff, poised and waiting for that final nudge into an abyss of truth, of understanding, and – she feared – regret. She'd aged nearly seven years with this man (she wouldn't think about the emotional aging his neuroses had wreaked on her) and seen him through countless infinitesimal steps toward a state of functionality. The realization that the three months she had spent apart from Adrian Monk could have translated into decades on his internal timeline inflicted a terrible sense of loss, rending at her gut. It was as though she had walked out of a movie at the consummate moment, or returned a borrowed book just before enjoying its climax. Only… this was different. This was a story that she should have been part of. _Right?_

A moment of cold, vibrating silence – cold as though a door stood ajar – rolled over the two before Sharona acknowledged that her companion's soft voice no longer warmed the strange atmosphere. Her gaze shifted from the lukewarm mug between her hands. She nearly slid off the side of her seat as she caught his eyes favoring her with an intensity that should have been frightening.

"Adrian?" She pushed for his attention, chewing the edge of her tongue. _What could he possibly be thinking... for a look like that? _Staring back, she willed herself to match his intensity with her concern. This seemed to jolt Monk out of whatever trance had descended upon him, as he blinked, gave his head a good shake, and rolled those dark eyes back to her face. Relief bubbled up beneath her previous unease as she noticed that the hard edge she had seen there a half-second before had fled.

"I-I still can't believe it. Seventy-six days. That's-that's how long I've been living like this, and-" he curled his fingers, resting on the tabletop, back against his palm, "And I still can't believe that I've got him." He was drifting again, but this time it was not toward her.

"Who, Adrian?" she coaxed, "The murderer? What did that man tell you?" Skepticism over Wolf's intentions refused to abate. On the same train of thought, though, something else occurred to her. "Wait a sec. If Wolf wasn't dangerous, why didn't you try to contact me?" Monk touched his temple, and a line emerged between his brows as they drew together.

"I may be crazy, Sharona, but I'm not an idiot. I knew. I-I knew that you had other reasons for dumping me and putting the entire… _country_ between us," he sighed and laced his fingers at the very edge of the table, "But it did take an enormous amount of self-control to keep from looking you up. Actually, I—uh—I told Stottlemeyer that I'd kill him if he let me touch a phonebook." Sharona, though sufficiently saturated by a wave of guilt, managed to put on enough of a cover to quirk a brow at this last confession. Monk emitted a nervous chuckle.

"I don't think he believed me."

"Excuse me? Do you know who you are? You can't even handle putting a couple of ants down the sink; would you touch a phonebook? I don't think so. Could you kill someone?" She snickered. To her relief, the corners of Monk's lips twitched gently.

"Hey, I was a cop, remember? And there was more than a couple, as you well know. It wasn't that long ago."

"Uh-huh. I'm sure there was," she crossed her elbows on the table, leaning so that her chin came to rest against her forearms, "So… are you gonna to tell me what the nutcase in the green suit said?" Parting his lips, Monk appeared slightly miffed in response to her casual dismissal of the sink and the ants, and… that day.

"The-? Yes. Uhm…" His fingers flexed instinctively, and he glanced out into the dining room. Before he'd the chance to continue, Sharona had unfolded her hands from beneath her jaw – all fingers raised on one, a single on the other. Six.

He turned his attention back very slowly, staring. It was then, for the first time since she'd arrived, that Sharona felt she could accept the dark, groomed tufts flanking his mouth and see Adrian Monk in every facet of the satisfied smile.

-----

_Before…_

"Ask them to hold for a minute, Randy. I'm checking up on Monk." The man himself had little difficulty picking up the aside over the connection. He remained silent until the Captain's voice rumbled from a position closer to his telephone's receiver. "Hey. How're you doin', Monk?"

"I – uh – hi. I'm fine. No—I'm _great._"

"_Great_?" Monk registered the incredulity flooding over the line only to confirm his suspicion that the news of Sharona had reached the department. But then, when had Adrian Monk ever been _great_?

"You heard me: I've never been better."

A beat.

"Monk, buddy? Uhm… I heard about Sharona. Want me to come over?" The detective faltered. Hearing the fact aloud fetched a cold, metallic taste to his tongue. Sharona was gone. Sharona… was… gone.

_Yes, she is. You'll have plenty of time left for mourning after you've killed the bastard that murdered your wife. _

Monk rubbed the heel of his palm against his eye and shook it off.

"That's not—uh—necessary. Besides, I have… things. To do. You know – vacuuming, and—and dusting. You know, I've been meaning to inspect the silverware; it can get bent, and scratched an—" the cool plastic squeaked beneath his grip as it tightened over the phone's molded, white body, "—Leland. I have a lead. Ten years, and _now_ I have a lead."

"What the hell are you—wait—you mean…? Where? How?"

"Just… come and get me, would you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll be right over."

_Click_


End file.
